Colors of the Mind
by ItalianPotatoMoustache
Summary: Gold, crimson, and violet. Those are the three colors that he wishes he could be. That jealousy is what coats the strings of sanity that binds his mind.


Gold. Everyone has a taste for gold, whether they admit it or not. Everyone has that greed within them, for good or for bad, for selflessness or for selfishness. In some people, that greed takes over like a plague, with every blood cell scurrying like an infected rodent until the greed has consumed their very being. Gold can be interpreted as many things, be it literal or metaphorical. To ask someone if they have a taste for their personal gold, well that question is rhetorical. Some are born with the taste laced within their silver spoon, others experience only a single drop that is just enough to tempt them to chase for that next taste. Some chase that taste for their entire lives, some have it the entire time. Fate is a mistress who enjoys trying with her puppets, winding their marionette strings until they snap. She is the greed that laces one's veins like a hit, she is the one who decides whether or not we succeed. Yes, fate is truly a cruel mistress who likes to break her toys in this puppet show that is life.

Crimson. Such a rich color, it truly is what flows through our veins. It can feel like water, easily ignored, or it can flow like a thick syrup that clogs the senses until the act of breathing seems too suffocating to achieve. It shines bright and dazzling like a theater star as it peeks out through the cracked skin of dry lips on a cold day; it creates such a vibrant contrast as it dots the pure snow of a winter day. It stains all it touches, turning even the most brilliant of whites into a tone almost as dark as the body of the black widow of which a crimson hourglass shines. Much like the web of the lady of death, crimson weaves it's way through the cracks and threads of whatever crosses its path until all that is left is a crusty puddle. Crimson shines the brightest out of all, but seems to fade the quickest. It's ferocity dies out like a flame after having used all its energy on stealing a gaze. Crimson is a star who washes up after their second of fame has left, leaving what was once a beautiful adult who was adored by the masses to simply fade away much like the smoke of a snuffed candle, it's existence extinguished within less of a second. It makes one think, why do we work so hard to be remembered if it's that easy to forget?

Violet. Rich, dark, glamorous violet. The color of the royal, a mark of pure elegance. A rich color, both in shade and meaning. The color of only the greatest fabrics and gems, when light shines on the abyss that is violet, it blooms in color in reaction. It loves the spotlight and the spotlight loves it. A sea of ever changing colors within the light, violet is truly captivating. It seems to change color just for one's viewing pleasure. It's almost as though it has a mind of its own.

Those were the three, gold, crimson, violet, the three that held his soul prisoner within their gem like brilliance. They captivated him, capitulated him, captured him. They danced across his mind like ballerinas, wispy tails of faint desire trailing behind like loose fabric caught floating amongst all the fluid movements. They flow against the wind like a scarf gone astray, like a whisper through the air. They display only the utmost of elegance, and he wants them. He wants their beauty, their fame, their everything. But he cannot be a color, no one can manage that. He cannot leave this life behind, like he so badly wishes, and become a brilliant or an obscure shade in comparison, he cannot become as memorable as them. He can't dance like them, like wisps of snow crossing over the River Thames, he can't shine as vibrantly as them, he can't leave a mark like they. It doesn't matter how hard he tries, he just can't.

He's like a lump of coal, continuously getting beat and beat and beat, in hopes of becoming a diamond, the pressure becoming so intense that he fears the complex strings of his mind may snap. The beatings don't leave behind beautiful, glistening skin, no, they leave behind disgusting purple bruises laced with greens and blues. They fascinate him regardless, he spends all his time admiring the bruises until he forms a sick fascination with the color. The dark, blackish, purple color that dots his skin like the spots of a dalmatian become his favorite sight for it makes him laugh as he compares it to that of a spider's abdomen. The spiders spin gorgeous webs that glisten in the sun as the light hits the silk strands, this is a spectacle he marvels in every morning. It gives him hope, almost. For if something as revolting as a spider could produce something as beautiful as a glistering web. These thoughts, although hopeful, continue to fill him with dread, for those webs he loves ever so dearly are constantly knocked down and hidden in corners. This perception warps his mind, winding those strings tighter and tighter, the pressure building and building, and makes him believe that should he ever be capable of creating beauty, it would not be appreciated, marveled at, nor enjoyed. No, it would bring terror, fear, disgust. The thought was toxic, infectious, poisonous, as it spread along the withering strings of sanity like drops of water desperately hanging onto a web. The thoughts pooled into fat drops, hanging dangerously above his mind in the realm of his subconscious thought. They dripped and dripped and dripped until those thought became reality for him. They stretched and poisoned and warped his reality until he perceived it in a way no one else could ever understand. Insults felt like burns, compliments felt like lies, looks felt like daggers. Life felt unworthy, unnecessary, unneeded, unwanted.

Blue. Icy blue. Untrustworthy blue. Untrusting blue. His eyes were this color, this seemingly vibrant shade. They seemed to glow and from afar, they looked as though they were fueled purely on enthusiasm for life. In reality, these blue eyes were hollow. Up close their vibrancy faded, looked dull, and just seemed empty. Not even sad, no, his eyes held no emotion up close, not even misery. They were like glass, but in order to see that you'd have to look deeper than the surface. Those glass eyes always felt glazed and to the one who was able to look through the glass and into his soul, those eyes were a window to a cell. Within the cell was a broken child, contained by the strings of insanity much like a marionette, for the strings that wrapped his mind snapped long, long ago. Beyond the loud, obnoxious, outgoing child there was a broken soul that just wanted the old life back. A soul that wanted to be free. A soul that wanted to die, for if a soul is miserable, how can a person be happy? How could someone like him, like Alois, be happy? For Jim it was easy. But Jim was gone, and in his place was just another face. A face that was simply ahead of Jim by just a pace.

Navy. The night sky was navy, like blue ink. It was thick like ink too. The stars shone in such contrast, tiny beacons of pure, white light. Some were other soloed rushing from oranges to pastel blues. From what he'd heard, they were planets. But as much as he loved the color of the night sky, there was a creature on earth who had somehow managed to capture the night sky for himself, who has captured his attention instead. Amongst the mop of raven hair, when the light hit it just right, slight slivers of blue would shine through. They would last but just a moment, for the boy, or perhaps little adult, would notice in an instant when he was being stared at.

This boy, who had managed to capture the elegance of the night sky, fascinated him. His name was Ciel, a name suiting his looks. He was smart. He was graceful. But should one look, truly look like Alois did every chance he got, they might get a look at his strings, at his window, at his true soul. He could see glimpses of Ciel's strings when he was thinking, while Alois stood far off in the crowd so he could not be easily noticed. Ciel had strings, lots of them too, just like him. His strings were wound tight, but they weren't complete chaos. Ciel's weren't as dangerous as his strings. His were still loose enough to keep him sane enough, to allow him to live in the true world. But they weren't all that loose, they wound tightly like a cage behind the window where Alois could see the truth. There was fear, horror, terror, but it and the youthful nativity of a young souls were trapped in the cage of bravery and false courage that those strings had weaved.

That boy had managed to take everything that made up his world, and flip it around. Claude, his Claude, had begun to ignore him even more. Every action now was just a catalyst compared to what it was before. It was as though a marble had been flicked and now it began to roll and finish its course at twice the speed as before. The strings began to tighten again, more and more as he watched the looks he got from his own demon. As he laid there on the floor, astonished at the color of his own blood but petrified at the notion that even with the beauty of crimson within him, he was not loved, he saw the truth in his demon's eyes. He was not there for Alois, and he would not save him. He wanted Ciel. Even when he sold his very own soul, when he damned himself for love and admiration once again, he was still nothing but a lump of coal, easily forgotten once the flame of the moment had burned out. He wanted to hate Ciel for this, but the child within him, the Jim within him, forced him to see the truth. It was as though the true soul within had broken free of his confines within the forgotten and forced his eyes with an iron grip to see the truth. His world seemed to shatter, the screen cracking like a spider's web as the panic grew within his chest. Ciel was just another boy who had taken the same path as himself, but hadn't seen the reality of the situation yet. He saw the window, he saw it in the moment right before he had been stabbed. On his face was fury, but in his eyes, beyond his facade, Ciel was just a boy that was trapped within his own world.

Death. It was cold when he died. It was cold in both the physical meaning and situational. He wasn't surrounded by loved ones, for he had no loved ones left to mourn. Not even the wolves cared enough to spare him by just ending his miserable life. The oozing puddle of blood did little to comfort him against the cold night. He wanted comfort, yes, but not because he was dying. He was not a child who was afraid of death. He was not even afraid of dying alone. He was a child who was afraid of dying slowly without the hallucinations that the pain would bring. When he died, he wanted to see his brother lead him into the afterlife. He did not want to die watching his vision fade. If his death left no impact on anyone else, then he wants it to impact himself. He wants his soul to die peacefully with memories induced from the pain in a way that his mind is telling him will help. He is dying, yes. He is very aware of that. Not even from the mark left by the blade that was wielded by Ciel himself. If that was the case, then maybe Ciel would've come back to recognize his corpse. No, for that would be too simple and kind for fate to do. He remembered feeling the hope that warmed his heart when he saw Claude come to help him. He was so happy, but when he saw that look in his golden eyes all his strings snapped, just like that. He was left a sobbing mess, pouring his heart out in an attempt to change Claude's mind. No, he can go out like this! Even Hannah, the only thing he felt he knew cared for him took a turn. Those creatures he held so dear both played a part in his fate. This has killed the soul, the case, that was Alois. Alois was untrusting, suspicious, and untrustworthy. Jim was simply sorry. And now Jim was left, a bloody, mangled corpse with a crushed skull, an empty eye socket, and pierced abdomen, to think as his life trickled away. There was no hallucination, there was no mercy. Fate didn't even have the courtesy to make his death as painful as it was slow, so he had nothing to focus on. He felt sorrow for not being able to express his gratitude to Hannah for cherishing Luka's soul, he felt sorrow for not dying sooner. But amongst those feelings, he felt grateful. One would expect him to despise Ciel for his part in Jim's demise, but they would be wrong. It was that moment as he struck him down that gave Jim hope. That glimpse into soul left Jim feeling less alone, and gave him a gift that he could never expect to have. For the first and last time in his life, as he closed his eye, he felt himself dream. For the first time since he lost the only thing that mattered to him, he slipped off into obliviousness knowing he wasn't alone. And merely minutes after he let his eyelid close as he dreamed, his sad soul drifted off as he realized he may have had someone who finally understood him, that he may have made the impact he sought after for so long.

It was that cold night in November, underneath that tree not far from the wreck of the carriage, that the mangled, bloody corpse of Jim Macken died with a smile on his face.

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This is loosely based off a fanfic I read so long ago that had the plot of strings of sanity. They described them as knots that were tied to his bones and were tied into bows. I can't find the fic anymore, it was really good. At one point I remember he wrote his name all over the walls in it as well. If this sounds familiar and you know the fic, please tell me it still exists! It was one of my favorites. I guess this is a little bit like a tribute character study to that fic then. Anyway, I was just dying to write this because I love delving into the mind of Jim Macken and Alois Trancy. Please feel free to leave any reviews, all are appreciated. You can find this on my fanficiton account of the same name as well. Thank you for reading.


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